


Death Incarnate

by Akiko_Natsuko



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Blood, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Gen, Murder, Secrets, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24400543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko
Summary: He wasn’t Jack Morrison farm boy, turned soldier…turned more.He wasn’t the Strike Commander he masqueraded as by day.SEP hadn’t created a soldier; they’d made a killer.All Jack had done was embrace it.
Kudos: 9





	Death Incarnate

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord [The Unholy Trinity](https://discord.gg/jdpcfy6XTB).

_How much blood could a man shed before it left a visible scar on his soul?_

That question, among others, had haunted Jack more in the beginning. These days it was a passing, fleeting thought, one that crept in at the strangest moments. Today, it bubbled up as he pushed himself upright, slowly, methodically cleaning the blood from his hands on the jacket he had taken from his target. There was a burning pain in his side, a slash that had made it through his defences, and he tilted his head, considering it for a moment. It might have killed him once, now it barely slowed him, the burn already beginning to seep away, and if he focused too closely, he could feel the skin starting to seal itself shut. By morning it would be little more than an angry red line, still painful, but ready to disappear. He grimaced, missing the days when the pain had meant something. When dealing death hadn’t been as easy as breathing, and his gaze returned to his hands, watching as he slowly wiped the blood away, until it was as though it had never been there.

He could still feel it.

A stain that couldn’t be washed away. He flexed his fingers, half expecting the blood to reappear. It didn’t. It never did, and yet each time, he felt as though it would. That it should. That people should be able to look at him and see the blood he had shed, the lives he had taken, and yet each day, no one seemed to notice anything. He hated it and loved it in equal measure. He didn’t want to see that moment when their expressions changed, the emotions that would bubble up when they realised what he was – fear, horror, disappointment, anger… betrayal. Didn’t want to give up this life, this freedom to unleash what he had to hold in day in and day out, chained beneath his skin by the weight of his uniform, his job, the expectations of friends, colleagues and the world itself. On the other hand, part of him itched to be seen for what he was. To be acknowledged for what he was, rather than what the world demanded he be.

Either way, he clearly hadn’t shed enough blood yet. Not for lack of trying he thought, a smirk tugging at his lips as he glanced across the apartment. The shattered remnants of the door, once pale walls painted crimson, a macabre painting of controlled rage, agony and fear.

_They hadn’t been expecting him. They knew what they had done, that there was a price on their heads, but they had been confident in their money, their guards and weapons. Gods of their own world. It was often the way, and Jack delighted in proving them wrong, in making them as helpless as the countless people who had died during the Crisis._

_He had peeled away their defences, one man at a time, following the chain of reporting in. Materialising from the darkness, a living ghost, come to steal the living. A knife to the jugular, painting the garden wall crimson. A press of the silenced gun beneath a meaty chin, followed by a fountain of blood. A sharp twist, a fragile neck no match for the superhuman strength of this ghost. Fingers, already bloodied, buried in blond hair forcing a face into another wall – over and over and over._

_He liked the variety._

_The door had been locked. It might as well have been left wide open for him, as he shouldered it open, not wasting a bullet on the lock. It might have been quicker, quieter, but he wanted them to know that he was there. He wanted that moment when they would freeze, rabbits in the eyes of a predator. He enjoyed that moment, where shock became terror, eyes widening, realisation that their money, their guards, their guns were not going to be enough to protect them here. That they were Gods about to fall. It was almost as heady as the blood on his hands, and he had smiled at them, igniting that final, flickering desire to fight, to flee, to live._

_The first had died as he moved, Jack’s firing twice, a bullet to each eye. Ana would be proud, he thought and promptly banished that thought, as he ducked to the side, as the others opened fire. For a moment, his vision wavered, and there was a roaring sound in his ears. The apartment – richly decorated, opulent from the wealth they had amassed during the Crisis – melting away, replaced by shattered walls, clouds of dust and the roar of gunfire as soldiers shouted out desperate orders, Omnics bearing down on them._

_Pain called him back._

_Some distant part of his mind registered the pain in his side, the glistening of metal, a knife buried to the hilt in his side. It was nothing. They were nothing. Anger roared in his veins; hunger stirred. He wanted to kill. He wanted to paint the world red. He moved without thought, sliding out from under his attacker, ripping the knife from the wound as he did so. The first strike killed the man, opening a bloody smile across the bobbing throat, but Jack was roused now, no longer a ghost in the night, but a demon unleashed, and he didn’t stop there. Again, and again, the blade flashed, writing his anger in blood and flesh._

_The click of a gun, had him ducking to the side, dragging the knife across flesh one final time before his eyes settled on the other three just as the wall exploded beside his head. He felt plaster slice into his cheek, a trickle of blood sliding down his face, he blinked, his only acknowledgement of the injury and he flung the knife, unerringly burying it in the gunman’s throat. He gurgled, shock written across his face and Jack laughed, alive in a way he never was in the rest of his life as he charged forward. They tried to track him, firing and cursing and retreating even as their third crumpled to the ground, leaving a path of destruction in his wake, but not coming close._

_Then death was on them._

_He shot the one on the left, expending the remain three bullets on him, taking his knees and his shooting arm but leaving him alive. Harmless, weeping…death hovering over him like a shadow, but alive. Then he was on the last man, catching the gun as out of ammunition the man tried to slam it into his temple. He had to give the man credit, he clung to it, fighting him, jabbing an elbow towards his bloody side, finding some determination in his terror. Still, it was like a breeze trying to take down a mountain, and Jack twisted, bone cracking under the force of it as he forced the man to drop the gun, kicking it away through instinct more than anything, before cracking the man’s nose with his elbow and letting him crumple._

_“…W-w-why?” The question was gurgled. Not that Jack needed to hear it. It was always the same question, and he tilted his head, wondering why people always asked that at the end. Did hearing a reason make death more palatable? Did it give them comfort? He didn’t know, but he didn’t offer an answer, knowing that his silence unsettled his targets more than anything, as he reached up and loosened his collar. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, he realised with a frown, that became a malicious grin as he realised the man was trying to crawl away, scuttling away from him, backing himself into a corner in his terror._

_Let’s change that…_

_He took the man apart._

_The military had taught him many things, combat had taught him more, and Gabriel had taken that and sharpened him to a knife’s edge. Now, he was something more…or less, he supposed, depending on your point of view. And as with Ana earlier, he pushed thoughts of Gabriel from his mind and lost himself in death and blood. At the start, there was pleading, questions and bargaining – riches beyond measure promised in exchange for a life that Jack had no interest in – still, he was fascinated with the process, with how the man’s voice rose and cracked along with bones and skin. How, the hope drained away with each drop of blood, bleeding away like the colour of the skin beneath his efforts, the dawning realisation that there was no bargain to be struck here._

_That death couldn’t be stopped._

_That Jack wouldn’t stop._

_SEP had shown him what the human body could endure. Now, he practised it on the man in front of him – limbs, skin and blood his canvas. Hands that signed orders to make the world a safer place by day, dancing violence against human flesh as Jack hummed under his breath. Eking it out, until the man broke body and soul, blood bubbling with each ragged breath as empty eyes met his. Living death. Jack smiled then, softer, less malicious and inclined his head at the mirror of himself – living death – and put him out of his misery._

Jack stared at that man now, curious more than anything else. He bore little resemblance to a human being now, his outsides reflecting the heart and mind that profited from the deaths of innocent people and the continuation of the Crisis – the reason why Jack had been so willing to take this job in the first place. _We both belong to death now,_ he thought, _but which of us is the biggest monster?_ There was no answer, there never was, and as Jack retrieved his own gun and reloaded it with steady fingers, he decided it didn’t really matter.

He belonged to death.

He was death.

There was a noise, and he turned to look at the man he had shot. He was still alive, although not for long if the blood pooling beneath him was anything to go by, but he was looking at Jack. Seeing him, and there was a pause, Jack’s breath catching for a second as recognition flickered in already darkening eyes. “…know…you…” The man rasped, horrified and accusing at once, and Jack sighed – seeing him weighing the public image of Strike Commander Jack Morrison, with the bloodied, death incarnate standing in front of him. _Is that what Gabriel would look like if he knew? What Ana would be like if she discovered what I am?_ He stepped forward, moving through the blood to stand over the man. “I…know…you.” It was a curse, a threat…both as empty as the feeling in Jack’s chest as he raised the gun.

“No, you don’t.”

The man slumped, and Jack turned away. “No, one does.” The world thought that they knew who Jack Morrison was. The press spent their days making sure that he had no privacy, stripping away any life he might have had so that the people knew who their ‘hero’ was, good or bad depending on their mood. He was a puppet to the brass, a soldier, a tool for them to use. He was a leader, a beacon to those that chose to see him that way. A target to those who wanted Overwatch to fail. A friend, an adopted uncle, seen through the eyes of people who thought they had seen him at his best and at his worst. Who knew more of him than anyone else, and yet still didn’t know who he was at all.

He wasn’t Jack Morrison farm boy, turned soldier…turned more.

He wasn’t the Strike Commander he masqueraded as by day.

SEP hadn’t created a soldier; they’d made a killer.

All Jack had done was embrace it.

****

Jack smoothed the cuffs of his shirt, rolling his shoulders, relieved to be free of the weight of that ridiculous coat after a press briefing that had run far too long and leant back in his chair. The press had been on his side today, his words welcomed, although he had no hope of that lasting more than a day or so. All those eyes locked on him, and not one of them seeing the blood he had shed the night before, he thought with a grimace, letting his hand drift down to press against his side. True to expectations all that remained was an angry red line, although it ached when he pressed on it, chasing the memory of what he had done. Hating and loving it in equal measure, this reminder of who he really was, as he rustled his wings within the confines of his cages, already eager for the next hunt, the scent of blood, and the dance with death, even as he wished that he could hate what he was.

A knock on the door, had his hand falling away as he lifted his head. “Come in.” He called, and the door opened to reveal Gabriel looking harassed as he often did, and something fluttered in Jack’s chest. _Did he know?_ There was something in the dark eyes that met his as the other man strode inside, but there often were these days, and so he sat upright, hands at ease on the desk and smiled at the other man. “What can I do for you, Gabe?” Hoping – he wasn’t sure what he was hoping for – but it wasn’t the sheaf of papers that Gabriel slammed down on his desk or the angry words that followed.

“You can tell me what the hell this is about…” 

Jack bit back a sigh as he reached for the papers, recognising the orders he had passed on from Petras and the committee, his own scrawling signature at the bottom – ever the puppet on the string - as he met Gabriel’s gaze.

_How much blood do I have to shed, before you see what I really am?_


End file.
